“You can try it if you want,” he growls, offering the pipe to me. “Just be careful. I doubt you can handle it as well as I can.”
“Okay,” I say apprehensively, taking the pipe.
The smell is skunky and reminds me of the scent of burnt fuel in the air in Concord City. I’m a little concerned about inhaling it, but he puffed on it like it was nothing, so I mimic what he did. I pull on the pipe, inhale deeply, and immediately cough so violently I nearly drop the pipe on the ground.
“Big hit for a little human girl,” he says, taking the pipe from my hand. “That should be enough for you.”
I don’t argue. I can’t. I’m coughing my head off and struggling to breathe. Once I’m able to get a few breaths, I sip my drink, which helps clear my throat.
“Wow, that’s harsh. I feel like I burned my lungs!” I exclaim, panting before I sip my drink again.
“No, this is the smoothest moiraroot in Uzrirgard,” he says, puffing his pipe a few times.
“Then I don’t think that’s for me,” I say, shaking my head as I lean back in my chair.
Except after a few minutes, I feel it, and realize the harsh coughing fit wasn’t that bad. It definitely complements the light buzz I have from the alcohol. The buzz settles heavier in my head than my body. I’m not sure if it really brings clarity. My mind feels sluggish, like I don’t care enough to think about anything. Maybe that’s what orcs call clarity.
He puts his pipe down, opens another bottle of grog, and gets comfortable. He stares at the stars, not saying anything at all, and I follow his movements. He came up here for peace and quiet. I’ll try not to annoy him. That’s easier now that my mind is just a blank slate, and nothing seems to matter.
“Most of what you see has a name,” King Lix’tuk says, finally breaking the silence. “Constellations named by orcs long ago.”
“Oh really?” I ask with genuine curiosity, glancing over at him. “I’ve read about constellations but never found any of the ones referenced in the old books.”
“No, can’t see shit with all that dust and sand in the air,” he rumbles, pointing to a cluster of stars. “That one is called Lashag’s Axe. People think it looks like the one he used to wield.”
I look at the cluster of stars, squinting, trying to make it out. After a few seconds of staring, I see what he’s referencing. There are six stars that make up what could be a double-bladed axe. A line of stars underneath it could be the handle.
“Did Lashag fight in The Great War?” I ask.
“No, his time was long before that, when orcs were still living in caves and mud huts,” he growls. “Back in those days, women who believed they could see the future would ingest roots and drink primitive grog to give them visions. Some of those visions framed our society as it developed.”
“Visions? Wow. Did any of them come true?” I ask.
“Prophecies are usually vague and open to multiple interpretations. The ones that aren’t vague rarely come to pass,” he explains. “But some orcs still believe in them, even though soothsayers are a thing of the past.”
“We didn’t have anything like that, unless you count religion,” I say, sipping my drink. “There were some prophecies in those texts, but I don’t think any of them ever came true.”
“Doubtful,” he rumbles. “Our soothsayers said their visions came from the Twelve Gods, but I’ve always thought that was nonsense. Especially as I’ve gotten older.”
“My parents weren’t very religious either,” I reply. “But we only had one god, not twelve.”
“My faith has wavered some, too,” he admits. “I don’t worship the Twelve Gods like I used to, but I’d never directly slight them. That’s the kind of thing that would send an orc to the underworld. Or so our texts say.”
“Well, I guess we know the underworld is real,” I observe, glancing over at him. “Since there was a rift in it that allowed demons to escape.”
“I don’t think they’re from the sameunderworldthe religious texts speak of,” he rumbles. “But there’s no way to know what’s true and what’s not with them. They love to lie and fill your headwith things that only serve to torment you. That’s what they do when they possess people.”
“Glad I’ve never met one,” I say, shuddering at the thought, pulling the fur tighter around me.
Maybe Rose was wrong to rank demons over a wealthy human. If demons torment the people they wear as skins, then it just sounds like a different version of hell. Considering those two options, I’m definitely grateful to be where I am. Sleeping at the foot of an orc king’s bed is better than possession.
“Are there other constellations like Lashag’s Axe?” I ask with interest, feeling some of the mental sluggishness from the moiraroot waning.
“Plenty,” he says. “So many I can’t remember them all. They’ve also changed over the years. Not for other orcs, but I’ve been around long enough to remember some of the older ones. There’s even one up there that’s supposed to be me.”
“What? Really?” I ask, looking up at the stars. “Where?”
“To the right,” he says, pointing to a group of stars and tracing an outline with his finger. “That part is supposed to be my mother’s face. The ones below it make up the arms that are holding me. My birth was such a celebrated event, the soothsayers claimed the Twelve Gods added stars to the sky when I was born.”
